Sanity and Shurikens
by CrimeSceneIdiot
Summary: R.D. Laing said that 'Insanity is a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.' After Castiel brings down the Great Wall of Sam, both Sam and Dean must learn to deal with the consequences. OneShot, no slash, warning for mild reference to torture.


A/N: Hey guys, here's my first published piece of work for Supernatural, it's something quick that popped into my head after I heard what Jared/Sera had to say about how Sam is dealing with hell at the start of season 7. I have no doubt that this is way off base, and I will be proved wrong in under a month (so excited!), but hey, that's what fanfiction is for! Anyway, hopefully the relevance of the lyrics at the beginning and end of the story is self-explanatory, and other than that, go forth, read and enjoy! And review if you have time, I'd love to hear from you. :) Finally, standard disclaimer applies to this fic: I don't own Sam and Dean or anyone else in the Supernatural world, much as I wish I did.

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'_I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known, don't know where it goes, but it's only me and I walk alone.' – Greenday (Boulevard of Broken Dreams)_

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They say you can tell a lot about a man by the way he organises his workspace. For a hunter this can be everything from the way he finds his hunts to the way he plans his kills, but most importantly, in the way he organises his weapons. John Winchester had the trunk of his pick-up organised with military precision, each weapon organised by type, and subcategorised by the material they were made with and the monster that they killed. Dean was more freestyle. As long as the salt didn't mix with the iron, and neither of them mixed with the silver, he was happy. In contrast, Sam had definitely inherited their father's penchant for military precision in weapons storage. Mixed in with his own natural tendency toward OCD, this meant that…

"SAM!"

There was a petulant silence before the reply came back. "What!"

Dean stomped up the steps to Bobby's porch, banging through the door. "What the hell did you do with the silver shurikens? The trunk is like a bloody maze, I can't find anything in there."

"I don't know, why don't you ask Dad!"

Dean stopped dead as though punched in the gut and then gasped for air as his brain caught up with his body and demanded oxygen. Ever since the Great Wall of Sam had fallen, or rather, been pulled down by a backstabbing assbutt of an angel, he'd been a bit confused: about people, places, and times. Sometimes he was convinced he was 10 years old, confused by his own adult body and other days he'd wake up asking for Jess, bewildered by Dean's presence at 'college'. All of those beat the days he spent curled up in a ball begging Lucifer and Michael to 'Stop, please, just stop, just for a minute…' and didn't even register Dean's presence.

Dean shook himself out of his thoughts to see Sam looking at him over the top of his book, annoyance turning to confusion as Dean remained silent. "Dean?"

Dean swallowed. "Dad's dead, Sam, remember?"

They'd discussed it on one of the rare days that Sam was completely lucid, how Dean would handle Sam's confusion, and Sam had been adamant: Dean was to tell him the truth, no matter how painful. Dean had railed against it at first, eager to spare Sam as much pain as possible, but after the first incident where Sam had assumed their Dad to be alive, and then remembered on his own, the look of pain and betrayal he sent Dean's way ensured he never tried it again.

Besides, he had come to appreciate it in its own way. Lying had been the Winchester way for so many years that telling the truth was refreshing and anyway, he now understood that Sam needed him to tell the truth, that he was only holding it together by relying on Dean to keep his stories straight, and Dean shouldered the burden the way he shouldered every other one Sam threw his way: willingly and without complaint. Well, too much complaint anyway.

Sam was staring at the ground, obviously frustrated, then he rallied and looked back up at Dean. "Oh yeah, I…yeah. Why do you want shurikens anyway?"

Dean huffed. Whatever about truth, denial was still the Winchester way. "Bobby rang. He says Jim Maxwell rang him about a hunt up north, thinks it might be a kitsune. Shurikens are the only sure-fire way to bring it down."

"Oh, ok. Em, I think the shurikens are at the back under the spare rosary beads. Even if they're not there, we could always stop by Blue Earth and visit Pastor Jim, he always has…"

Sam trailed off by himself this time as Dean felt his breath catch in his throat for the second time in minutes. He cursed Lucifer, Michael, Castiel and anyone else he could think of when Sam looked up at him with a fine sheen of tears making his eyes glassy. "Meg killed him, didn't she? I remember that now."

Dean nodded sharply, unable to speak around the lump in his own throat. Sam looked back down at his book and for a minute there was an awkward silence as both of them fought to get their emotions under control. Dean succeeded first, clearing his throat. "Even if I can't find them, I'm sure Bobby's got some lying around here somewhere, the man's a packrat."

Sam nodded once, still staring at his book. Dean hesitated, unable to leave the room with Sam still upset.

"Don't worry Sam, I'll take care of it." Pretending to be talking about the weapons.

Sam looked up, meeting his gaze firmly for the first time in the conversation. "No, Dean. We've talked about this: I have to do this myself." No such pretence on Sam's part, but then, he had always been the bravest of the Winchesters when it came to talking about feelings.

Dean dropped his own pretence, weapons forgotten in the face of his desperate need to make it better for Sam the way he'd been trying to do since he ran out of their first house, flames licking at his heels and his father's words ringing in his ears. "Sam, you gotta let me help, dealing with hell alone, it's…it's killing you, man! You just…you have to, I don't know, talk to me or something, I can hel-"

"You do help!" Sam's vehement proclamation cut across his own hurried argument. "You help," Sam continued, quieter now that he had gotten Dean to shut up. "You help every time you don't lie to me when I'm confused. You help every time I wake up from a seizure and you're there with a cold cloth for my head. You help when I wake up from a nightmare in the dog hours of the morning and you're already awake with the TV and all the lights on so I won't freak out. You're the only thing that helps, Dean."

Sam's gaze had faltered again by the end of his little speech, his eyes firmly fixed on the opposite wall, clearly embarrassed. Dean stared at Sam, feeling a deep swell of love for his brother, which he promptly pushed down, wildly searching for the words that would defuse the utter awkwardness of this situation.

"Hold me, Sam: that was beautiful."

Sam's gaze snapped back to him, and he smirked as his brother's face twisted into his best bitchface, which did nothing to hide the relief in his eyes, but both of them would ignore that. "Whatever. Jerk."

"Bitch." Satisfied with a job well done, Dean turned to go and search for the shurikens, but was called back by his brother's hesitant "Dean."

"Yeah Sam."

"I…can you…I mean…" Sam stuttered, seemingly unable to form the words. He stopped a minute, trying to collect his thoughts. "I can't find Bobby's book on Asian monsters. Could you give me a hand?"

Dean smiled, hearing what Sam was really trying to say. "Don't worry Sammy. I'll take care of it."

He turned and strode out the door, confident for once that Sam had heard what he was trying to say as well.

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'_And if I only could make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places, be running up that road, be running up that hill, be running up that building.' –Placebo (Running Up That Hill)_

_-Fin-_

A/N 2: I have to say, the more I read through this, the more nervous I am about posting it, but I really want to get it up before the S7 premiere so what the hell! Anyway, reviews feed the author's soul, so please hit the button below and be kind (or at least constructive in your criticism). Thanks! CSI.


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